Whose Bed Is It Anyway? (2 page)

‘You have to.'

She needed this bed. George had said she could use it. But Grumpy James here was going to ruin it for her.

‘Look.' She abandoned all dignity and pride. ‘We can figure something out. I'll take the floor.'

Rigid, his glare pierced deeper. It was a wonder her bones didn't snap from the force emanating from him.

‘You are
not
sleeping on the floor.'

Caitlin sighed. ‘Don't pretend to be all chivalrous now. I've seen the real you unmasked, remember? You know, the guy unsurprised to find what he thinks is a hooker in his home.'

‘You are not sleeping on the floor.'

Implacable? Yeah—he had the whole stubborn attitude on.

‘Fine.' She switched tack. ‘We'll
share
.' She glanced at the massive mattress. ‘The bed is big.'

‘Not big enough.' He looked shell-shocked.

She swallowed. He was probably right. He was not short and he had shoulders broad enough for a nation's sorrows. But she had nowhere else to go. ‘Plenty big enough,' she argued stoically. ‘I'll have this small edge here. We'll put some pillows down and you can have the rest. Will that do?'

‘No.'

‘What, you have some Victorian sense of propriety now?' she said.

‘I never pay for sex. Nor do I sleep with unwilling women.'

Caitlin stared at him, momentarily lost for words. What did he expect her to say to that? A horrendous sizzle slid over her skin as her body whispered the word she surely should deny—
willing
.
So willing.

Oh, no, that just wasn't right. The guy might be gorgeous, but he was a jerk. He'd just thought she was a prostitute. She shook her head.

Mindless with exhaustion, James just wanted the talking to stop. The drama to stop. Damn it, he needed
everything
to stop so he could sleep. For a good twenty hours. He'd been going on less than three hours for the last three weeks and that was before the forty-hour travel hell. He was past it.

‘Look, I can control my debauched urges enough not to attack you,' he slurred more than spoke.

This sure wasn't some ‘paid-to-please' woman—she was doing everything possible to
displease
him. And he supposed he couldn't really blame her for that.

He felt bad. His whole body ached, especially his brain. But worst of all was the flicker of desire. He didn't want her to stay in his bed. Not her with her stunning legs and curves and sparkling-for-all-the-wrong-reasons eyes. It was impossible.

Because he
wanted
but shouldn't. Besides that, couldn't. And she most definitely
wouldn't
.

There was no making this bad situation better, not while he was this sleep deprived and frankly addled. He closed his eyes but she was still talking. Something about pillows and space again. Infuriating, sexy-as-hell creature.

‘I'm tired,' he interrupted, holding his hands up as he surrendered. ‘I'm sleeping. Talk tomorrow.'

He pitched face first onto the bed, gave over to the dark.

Caitlin stared at the man now sprawled out on his stomach. Sound asleep already, his limbs stretched out over a good three quarters of the bed.

She should have known it was too good to be true. Walking into this apartment only a few hours ago she'd been so excited. Sure, the rest of the place was unlivable, stripped back to bare, but then she'd climbed the stairs—and hit heaven. Up in the clouds, this beautiful, glass-walled white room offered the most incredible view of Manhattan. She'd stood at the window and looked out at the inspiring constructions of concrete, iron and glass, interspersed with the greenery of parks and the blue patches of sky. She'd felt free. Positive. Safe.

And now? Grumpy bear had returned to his lair.

She glared at him. He was too handsome for his own good with his dark hair, stubble, and long eyelashes. The thin scar marked but didn't disfigure—it told of courage, sacrifice, determination. His long legs and arms were obviously strong but not bench-press-addict bulky. Hastily she drew the sheet up to cover him. She didn't need to ogle the jerk. What kind of man automatically assumed a woman sleeping in his bed was there waiting only for his pleasure? An arrogant one who'd had way too many women, way too easily.

She drew in a deep steadying breath. Tried to consider her options. Drew a blank. Just what
was
she supposed to do now? She was so tired from the last few weeks' media nightmare, from the hellish flight over from London, from the hour-long battle with the airline over her lost luggage, from facing all these battles alone...

So
damn
tired.

She looked at the strong man lying so contentedly asleep in the big bed. If she couldn't beat him, maybe she should just join him?

Caitlin jammed a couple of pillows right up next to him, refusing to note once more just how fine his body was. Then she slipped between the sheets on the small space on the other side and turned her back to him, curling herself into a small ball.

Just for tonight.

TWO

James Wolfe sank
deeper into the decadent, erotic dream. He tasted sweet mixed with salt, felt heat and hardness contrast with softness and smiles. Saw aquamarine eyes shimmering with defiance and desire. Heard words whispered with a wild edge. He reached out, wanting to touch...

But his hand slid over a cold sheet.

He slowly opened his eyes, trying to drag his reluctant, relaxed mind back to the realm of reality. First thing he saw was the empty stretch of mattress beside him. Frowning, he blinked—certain his dream woman had been in bed with him.

Then he heard the sound of running water emanating from behind the closed bathroom door. He smiled. It was okay. She was in the shower.

But then his mind, so briefly and blissfully rested, froze. He stiffened, then sat bolt-upright as actual memory returned and shredded the remnants of fantasy.

There
had
been a woman in bed with him. A woman who'd worn his shirt and nothing else. A woman he'd thought was...
hell
.

His stomach curdled.

George had said she could stay here. George never invited random women to stay. Not for more than a night and not without him. Which meant this woman was special. James rubbed his aching temples with tense knuckles as the blindingly obvious hit him.

She had to be his brother's girlfriend.

George had been single a while, earning a reputation as a slayer—‘making up for lost time now he was off the leash' as all the blogger types sniped. James knew some of George's supposed escapades were fabrication, but not all. Still, it wasn't impossible to believe George might've fallen for a blonde with soft-looking lips, and blue eyes that widened in surprise and sparkled in annoyance. Uh-huh.
Why
George wanted her was easy to see. She was easy to want. But letting her stay in their private condo was more than want. That meant serious.

And what had James done? All but called her a whore and told her to leave. He winced. All class, he was. George was, rightly, going to be pissed. James was going to have to grovel. To both of them.

The sound of running water ceased and James tensed. Maybe he could convince her to forgive and forget the whole incident? But
how
to convince her? Throw himself on her mercy? Explain he was so exhausted he hadn't been thinking straight? Blame the stress of his last assignment?

He glanced down, frowning at the white cotton sheet covering him. He didn't remember sliding under it last night, which meant
she
must have—

An entirely inappropriate image flashed in his head. An entirely enjoyable one. Hell, he wished he'd never seen her legs, or how curvy her unfettered breasts looked in one of his T-shirts.

His
clothes.
His
bed.
His
.

If she was Goldilocks, he was definitely the bear. But he hadn't done a very good job of chasing her away. She'd been way more defiant than that thief from the fairy tale. She'd been almost desperate to stay. He wondered why that was.

The door to the bathroom opened. She walked out, her expression guarded. James' innards shrivelled in excruciation. She couldn't look
less
like a hooker. Her pale face peeked out above the turtle-neck roll of a giant black sweater. Baggy black jeans hung on her, hiding the figure he knew was lithe. She'd scraped her wet hair into a function-over-form ponytail, the bedraggled twist nothing like the swathe of colour that had blanketed his pillow so enticingly. Given her pallor he guessed she'd not brushed any make-up on. Cloaked with an air of wariness, she looked smaller, tired. But still determined. Still sexy.

Yeah, part of him wanted to haul her back to his bed, strip her out of the oversized gear and help her relax enough to sleep soundly. She looked as if she needed it as much as he and he still had seven hours' straight sleep in him. He could forget the world with her. Make her forget her own name. And George's?

Guilt skewered his chest. What was he thinking? To contemplate—even for a second—messing with the woman his brother had sent here? Maybe he
was
screwed up after his last assignment. Maybe he'd seen too many hearts broken. Maybe he'd got so desensitised he'd forgotten what was right and what was wrong. Because this was wrong.

He shifted, tugging up the sheet for something to do, cursing himself for not getting up and dressing while she was in the shower. Glancing back up, he caught a flash in her gaze.

James saw emotional extremes all the time—inconsolable grief, terror, pity, relief. Apocalyptic events pushed people beyond human endurance. He knew the keening wails of distraught villagers who'd lost loved ones, homes, land—people who'd lost everything but the ability to breathe. He emotionally distanced himself from them. Had to. Couldn't get his job done if he felt every hurt along with them. But he wasn't used to someone looking at him as if she wanted him to disappear. Or as if she wanted to be the one to
make
him disappear. Usually people fell over themselves in relief when they saw him. So this was novel. And frankly?

Interesting.

Inappropriate again. He gritted his teeth. He needed to get his head together. Find out the facts. And get her to leave.

‘I'm thinking we need proper introductions,' he said carefully. ‘As you know, I'm James, but I didn't get your name last night—'

‘Caitlin.'

Her voice was every bit as cool as her expression. Both set him on the boil. Caitlin
who
? Caitlin
why
? The temptation to tease was impossible to resist. ‘You like wearing other people's clothes, Caitlin?'

The ones she had on now sure weren't hers. Three sizes too big and not nearly stylish enough for her figure.

Colour touched her cheeks. ‘My luggage got lost somewhere between London and New York.'

Luggage? So she'd only recently arrived? ‘So that's why you were wearing my shirt?'

She inclined her head. ‘I'd washed my clothes and they were still wet.'

‘Those are really yours?' His brows lifted. He caught the resurgence of defiance in her eyes and checked himself. Tempting as it was to bait, he wasn't supposed to be making this worse. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘You weren't interested in listening.'

‘You were too busy talking.'

‘You were too busy assuming.'

‘You were too—' He broke off.
Too tempting
—with her beautiful hair and long, lush legs. Of course he'd thought of sex. Hell, what man wouldn't when he was beyond tired, who'd lived in hell the last three weeks on top of a previous assignment that had been shorter, but even worse. Confronted with that vision—a sleeping, soft, hot woman? The idea of losing himself in her vitality, in feeling
alive
for a moment before diving into a deep, ideally dreamless sleep?

Oh, hell. He was a sick unit.

‘So you're heading out to get some new clothes?' He dropped the previous topic and aimed for something less inflammatory. Fingers crossed she'd find a new place to stay while she was out.

She looked away, studying the room. ‘I'm hoping my bag will arrive today.'

‘There are a ton of shops to tide you over,' he said, wondering the best way to bring up the topic of her and George.

‘That's not why I'm here.'

Surprised, he frowned. She was in no hurry to go buy a new wardrobe? What woman didn't like to go shopping? He glanced at her worn outfit again and mentally kicked himself.
A woman who couldn't afford to
.

Was that why she'd resisted leaving last night? She couldn't afford to go anywhere else? The defiant pride beaming from her eyes showed she wasn't about to admit it. Fair enough.

‘Why are you here?' he asked.

‘Just for a holiday.'

‘For a month?'

She nodded but he got the impression she was keeping something back from him. George had said she could holiday here for a month? To be fair, James really hadn't kept his family up to date with his itinerary. He figured this mess-up served him right. If she couldn't afford to go anywhere else, he was going to have to do the gentlemanly thing—especially given his brother had offered the place to her. Except James didn't want to stay somewhere else. This was as ‘home' as it got for him. It offered him isolation. Peace and quiet—something he only ever needed for a couple of days in between assignments.

If she was here on the tourist ticket she'd be out sightseeing all day, dining out, dancing half the night in the clubs. They'd hardly notice each other, right?

Aside from the minor detail that they'd have to
share.
Only this one room in the apartment was in action and, while sharing a room would be bad enough, sharing a
bed
with his brother's woman was on the ‘forbidden' list. Assuming she
was
his brother's woman?

‘George said you could stay.' He drew his knees up and leaned forward to watch her reaction.

She nodded again, glancing away. ‘But it's clearly inconvenient.'

He thought rapidly. If he chased off his brother's girlfriend, he'd never hear the end of it. As it was he got too much grief for not being involved with the family enough. To be the ‘beast' who'd scared beauty out of the castle would be too much for his brothers to stand. Doubtless they'd stage an intervention. ‘George doesn't open up to many people.'

‘He's been a good friend to me.'

Friend
. Was that all he was? James ran his hand through his hair and down to rub the back of his neck. If he'd bothered to be in touch with his brothers more, he'd know. He wouldn't have to ask. As it was, he did. ‘You know him well?'

‘Not intimately. Which is what you're really asking, right?' She shot him a look. ‘What does it matter to you?'

His blood heated at her defiant spark. ‘You really need me to explain?'

The inappropriate reply was out before he could think to stop it. And really, the fierce surge of desire needed no explanation. With those blue eyes, blonde hair, the legs, and the curves that called out to be admired. Held. Tasted. And as for the spirited tilt of her chin and the colour seeping into her cheeks...

‘In some ways you're very like your brother,' she said, her voice rougher than before.

‘But I'm not him.'

George, though he was trying hard to deny it, was a commitment man. A keeper for the right woman. James was definitely not. No matter how right the woman,
he
was all wrong. And knowing that, he probably shouldn't be thinking all things sexy about his unexpected house-guest. He probably should back off and be good.

Except he was tired of being good.

She angled her head, studying him. ‘Does it bother you? People confusing you?'

They weren't identical but were so alike most people thought they were. Until recent times, when James' injury made it obvious. But the scar was superficial. Their real differences had been etched inside years ago when, because of James, a man had died and a family had been destroyed. That old cold feeling sluiced down his spine. He stiffened, pushing it out. He was over that. He was busy, content. Doing something with his life. Slowly he shook his head. ‘Used to. But we're very different. Sometimes I wish I were more like him.'

‘In what way?'

Caitlin watched a remote look cross James' face, then his smile twisted and a surprisingly wicked gleam sparked in his eyes. She couldn't help thinking he'd summoned the charm to scare away the devils.

She knew George Wolfe was the ultimate playboy. Charming, witty, a master at making women willing, biddable, all too easily beddable. Not that she'd succumbed. And truthfully, she'd not received his interest that way, he'd felt pity for her rather than attraction. Because they had that one thing in common. They'd both felt the bite of the press, the judgment of the ill-informed masses.

Notoriety.

But all George had offered her was a safe haven—a hideaway. Turned out the cave came with the big, growly bear who wanted isolation to hibernate. And James Wolfe was more predator than playboy. For all his supposed heroism he had a streak of the hunter. She felt far more at risk here and now than she ever had with George—far more at risk of succumbing. Because James Wolfe, with his sleep-mussed hair, stubble and smoky eyes, was compelling.

‘If I were more like George, I'd have no trouble telling you how well you wear my T-shirt.' His smile deepened, a small dimple appearing in one cheek. ‘And how much I'm kicking myself for being so abrupt last night.'

Abrupt? He'd been more than abrupt.

‘I hope you can forgive me,' he said, as smooth as molten chocolate.

She didn't trust anyone who said anything nice to her—certainly not a man. Not any more. She was sure that in the depths of James' equally molten chocolate eyes, she'd find calculation. ‘Is that what you really want?' she asked bluntly.

‘What I really want...?' he echoed softly.

Oh, she was not falling for his sudden smoothness. She knew what he was up to. ‘You're worried I'm going to tell the world what a jerk
the
James Wolfe actually is?'

His concern was laughable. He clearly wasn't aware there was no way the world would ever believe
her
.

His chin lifted, his smile turned self-mocking. ‘Not worried about the world, but I am a little concerned about what George might say.'

George would probably
laugh.

‘So,' she challenged. ‘You thought you'd turn on the Wolfe charm and befuddle me so much I'd forget all about it?'

His brows arched high. ‘I thought it was worth a try.'

He was so obviously joking—trying to tease them out of this embarrassing situation. But to have another guy faking flirt with her for his own gain? She couldn't raise a smile. ‘Why?' she asked tartly. ‘You need the world to think nothing but the best of you? Your ego is so huge you need every woman to want you?'